


The Quick Brown Fox

by entanglednow



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-28
Updated: 2010-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:25:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damon's always been good at finding ways to amuse himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quick Brown Fox

  
Alaric has a death wish.

It's the only explanation that makes sense. Some sort of complicated 'my rage is my own self-destruction, blah blah blah,' that only a really expensive therapist could ever understand.

Damon's not above taking advantage of it though. Not above handcuffing it to his bed and sliding its clothes off with the sharpest knife he can find. Especially when it doesn't fight. When it hates itself for it.

He's careful not to slice into the skin because Alaric is already a heady combination of sex and rage and guilt, and adding blood to that would be too much like chumming the water.

Damon only has so much self-control after all.

He's currently perched in Alaric's lap, like some pale, mostly naked god, admiring the stretch and burn where Alaric's arms are hauled over his head and clasped tight to the headboard.

Damon wants to dig his fingers in, wants to dig _everything_ in. He gives a low growl and enjoys the way Alaric's hands curl into fists and jerk at the sound.

"I like you like this," Damon decides. He makes a soft appreciative noise and digs in just a little with his knees, a slow, lazy rock of his hips. "All vibrating with righteous fury and guilty, shameful lust. It's a good look for you."

It is a good look for him. There's something about Alaric's face, even when it's angry. Something that looks young and soft and easily bruise-able.

"And yet the way you look at me." Damon grasps his chin and turns it back and forth. He watches that murderous glint. The one that's still struggling with the honest-to-God _lust_ currently pumping Alaric's blood twice as fast as usual.

Damon's almost impressed.

"I'm not sure if I should applaud you or break your neck." He enjoys the slide and jerk of Alaric's adam's apple in his throat at that. He drags his fingers over it, feels the steady hammer of his pulse. A tangled up mess of fear and anger and arousal and that - fuck - that may be his new favourite flavour.

Damon slides his hand down, lazy over warm skin, thumb dragging across the jut of a nipple that's just begging for a set of teeth to be sunk into it - he takes a breath he doesn't need, lets it shake out loud enough to Alaric to hear. That's like a tease he's usually really bad at resisting. But he's enjoying their conversation.

It's one-sided, but then Damon doesn't mind doing all the talking. He has become used to the sound of his own voice after all.

"Alaric," he says, because he can, all throaty purr, while his fingers drag over ribs and muscle, feeling how fragile it all is but how quickly it twitches and jumps under his touch.

He enjoys the shallow spaces at Alaric's hipbones, almost under his own thighs and that gets him breathy little noises of unwilling pleasure. He can't resist pushing his thumbs in hard enough to leave bruises.

That gets him a harder, wounded little grunt that's not protest at all, but probably wants to pretend it is.

Everything is a curve under the stretch of his arms. Like the man's on display just for him.

Damon can't resist Alaric's wide open mouth, pushes two fingers in, feels the flickering heat of his tongue.

Alaric's teeth come down hard and fast.

Damon hisses, laughs, and slides his fingers free, watches the broken skin heal while he flexes. He stares at the smears of blood for a while and then flicks his eyebrows up.

"Remind me not to stick anything I'd like to keep in your mouth," he says.

He's amused and entertained and seriously considering drawing this out forever. Until there's begging and crying and wide spread open thighs and the thunder of a pulse in his mouth.

"I think you like it rough, Mr Saltzman. I think you have hidden depths."

Damon folds over, straight teeth finding the curve of Alaric's chest and digging in just hard enough to get a drawn breath. He shifts, rises, fingers caught round Alaric's wrists, mouth so close to his ear he could trail it with his tongue

"Though I think if you have an aversion to me sliding my fingers inside you, you should probably get over that now, because I'm going to do that a lot. I'm going to do that over and over until you're begging and wet and pushing back like a whore."

There's a ragged indrawn breath, a sharply bitten off curse that sounds like refusal. But Damon can feel the shudder, the low vibrating groan that screams 'liar.'

"Of course, I could cut my own holes in you to slide my fingers in. But I don't think you'd make those dirty little sounds then. Oh, they'd still be pretty, but they wouldn't be as delicious."

Damon taps at the wet redness of Alaric's lower lip. Watching the eyes flicker through a dozen emotions like a heady expensive cocktail of lust and denial. But then Alaric's mouth opens again, lets two of Damon's fingers slide into the heat of it again, slower this time over the wetness of his tongue. Damon draws in a breath when there's slow uncertain suction.

This one, he likes this one.


End file.
